


Blue, the most human colour

by feudalhandmaiden (viewingcutscene)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dreadfort, F/F, M/M, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viewingcutscene/pseuds/feudalhandmaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark will retake Winterfell from the Boltons at any cost.  As she travels with her half-brother, the wildling army, and most importantly, the knight she is growing to love, can she bear the sacrificial toll that war will take on the people she cares about for the sake of her home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Such An Old-Fashioned Word

Ice crystals were forming on Sansa’s lashes by the time they stopped the horses near the shore of Long Lake. Somewhere in the distance, shrouded in icy mist, lay the Dreadfort. “I never expected to be here,” she said, half to herself.

  
“With luck, my lady,” Brienne said, “Neither will Ramsay.”

****

After Jon had agreed to help her retake Winterfell, things moved rather faster than Sansa expected.

“He has Rickon, and he’s not a patient man,” Jon said. “If we’re doing this-”

“We are.”

“-Then we move fast, and we hit hard.” He held out a hand without looking, and the dour-faced looking brother - Edd? - handed him a map. It charmed Sansa to see her awkward, gangly half-brother surrounded by men who called him brother, and knew his thoughts and feelings like their own. _We’ve all of us had too little of love and loyalty these past years._ It brought Theon to her mind, and she hoped he was safely home on Pyke. It was a bitter jest that mother and Robb, whom she’d loved dearly, were both dead, and Theon, whose pointed face and leers she’d despised, and Jon, who she had treated so shabbily, in miniature of her mother’s scorn, were her dearest allies and yet - perhaps there was a lesson in it, about the nature of love.

Brienne, tall and unnatural in her blue quilted tunic, stood next to Jon, pointing out locations of skirmishes between the Bolton and Baratheon forces. Sansa flushed to think of how she had rejected the knight’s first oath to her, in a smoky tavern, while that smirking shit Littlefinger sat there, with beady, greedy eyes crawling over like like… like little fingers. She’d wanted so badly to believe Brienne’s solemn words, to have this strong, loyal woman as her sworn knight, but she had lived long enough in the South to know there were no true knights. Sansa sent Brienne, heartbroken and battered, away - and yet. Brienne had left when Sansa commanded it, obeying her vows to Sansa though they had been rejected, and saved her in the end from Bolton’s dogs. In Sansa’s dreams, the Maiden and the Warrior both wore Brienne’s face, homely and earnest, and so quickly beloved.

She shook herself free of her thoughts, causing her cloak to shiver, and Ghost to lift his head with an interrogative tilt. The great hairy wildling caught her eye, and grinned. She found herself smiling back at him, liking his great laugh and steadfastness to her brother. All the men in this room were loyal to Jon, else Ghost would not let himself drowse by the fire, and she was glad of the Direwolf’s presence, even as her heart contracted round the gap left by Lady’s loss.

“So, Bolton holds Winterfell, the Wolfswood, Deepwood Motte…” said Jon. “The Wolfswood is likely our best chance. To come at Winterfell from the east is to leave us all exposed on the approach.”

“We’ll be pinned between Bolton’s forces. This plan is suicide.”

“They all are,” Jon said with exasperation. “Trust me, I’ve no great fondness for dying.”

“You could stop doing it,” Tormund jested. “Can we sail from the west, and take this fort, sweeping eastward?” He pointed at Deepwood Motte. “Lady, if your ally went home to the reavers, they could guard our backs.”

Brienne spoke up in that stiff manner of hers. “The proper form of address is ‘my lady’, ser wildling.”

“Do I look like a kneeler to you, ser knight? She’s no lady of mine,” Tormund said, “but she’s obviously a lady.”

“Sansa is fine, Tormund-” she said, trying to hide a smile.

“Lady Sansa-”

“ _-thank you_ , Brienne.”

Jon cleared his throat. “If protocol is settled then? We could try and get a message to Theon, but given my sister’s report, I’m loathe to rely on such a broken man for aid. We’ve no guaranteed Balon didn’t kill him ere he set foot on Pyke.”

Everyone frowned at the map, the room silent but for Edd clearing dishes and Ghost’s paws twitching on the hearthstone as he dreamed wolf dreams. Sansa was so deep in thought she didn’t realize Brienne’s squire had spoken at all.

“Eh, Pod?” Brienne said. “Say that again for the Lord Commander.”

“I’m not-” Jon made a noise of disgust. “What did you say, Payne?” Sansa startled. She knew Podrick had been Lord Tyrion’s aide prior to becoming Brienne’s squire, but she hadn’t known he was related to the Lannister headsman. Probably for the best - Pod had proven himself multiple times on the road north to be, if not competent, eager, polite and hard-working. He deserved her regard free of bias.

“Who guards the Dreadfort?”

“The Dreadfort!” Sansa burst out. “Pod, you’re a brilliant fiend, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No, my lady,” Pod said, glowing with pleased embarrassment.

Sansa paced the length of the table, eyes half closed, to recall conversations overhead while serving dinner or lying half-senseless in bed for days. “Roose Bolton is dead. We know this from Ramsay’s letter, he called himself Lord of Winterfell.”

Edd spoke. “Aye, you said he killed his own father.”

“He must have. Roose was hale when we escaped.” She stopped dead, and clutched her hands together to stop them from trembling. “Lady Walda must be dead as well, she was carrying Roose’s child. Poor girl.” Despite her dire circumstances, Sansa had felt pity for Walda Frey. Walda had been married into that pack of jackals, like her, but at least Sansa had fourteen good years growing up in a loving family, where Walda always lived under the thumb of that decrepit old weasel who betrayed her brother. How Walda had remained sweet, and even devoted to Roose Bolton, was beyond Sansa’s comprehension. She had either been simple, or dutiful beyond good sense - and now, she was dead. Sansa whispered a prayer to the Mother for Walda’s soul.

“Gods be good, Sansa,” Jon said, looking green.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said with a fierceness that startled everyone. “Roose is dead, and his heir with him. Ramsay is at Winterfell, and he holds it along with Deepwood Motte and - anything else?”

“The Boltons took Moat Cailin on their way north,” Brienne said, “But it requires very few to hold it.”

“Irrelevant.” Sansa dismissed the Neck with a wave of her hand. “If Ramsay has the bulk of his forces at Winterfell, and Deepwood Motte to guard against Balon Greyjoy’s ambitions, there cannot be many men at the Dreadfort. If we take it, he will have to answer us in the field. Only, we’ll be behind walls, and he’ll be laying siege to us.”

“The Boltons were prepared for Stannis,” Brienne said. “Winterfell must be stocked for siege.”

“It is,” Sansa replied. “Lord Bolton - that is, Roose - said they had supplies for at least six months. Longer, on rations. Even if we could match Ramsay’s numbers in the field, we could never take Winterfell if he decides to hole up.”

“Your sister has the right of it, Crow,” Tormund said. “Wildlings don’t do siege warfare. That didn’t stop us from nearly taking the Wall, though. Har!”

“Whenever I start to like you, Tormund, you do something stupid.” Jon turned to Edd. “Edd…”

“I know. I have the Wall. Fuck me sideways, but I’ll hold it for you. Oof!” Edd grunted as Jon gathered him into a bone-crushing bear hug. “You don’t deserve me,” Edd muttered into Jon’s fur cloak.

“Don’t I know it,” Jon said. “How I wish Pyp and Grenn were here with us!” He fumbled at his waist, and unbuckled his sword belt. “Give me your sword, Edd.”

“No! Mormont gave that to you - to you, Jon, before you were made Lord Commander.” Edd stared at Longclaw like Jon held a venomous snake across his arm. Firelight glittered in the rubies set in the pommel. “The brothers will or won’t follow me on your command, not because I have some fancy commander’s sword.” Jon pressed the sword into Edd’s arms.

“Take it,” he said. “I’m fighting men, not walkers, nor wights. It’s Valyrian steel. You were at Hardhome. You know what this can do.”

“Fuck,” muttered Edd. “Alright, give it here.”

As they exchanged swords, Brienne drew Oathkeeper and laid it on the table, atop the map, parallel to the line marked “The Wall”. “By rights, this sword should be yours, Lord Commander.” The great sword’s blade gleamed red, as if it had been dipped in blood. It was bigger than Longclaw, with two deep grooves down the center, where Jon’s sword had just the one. The hilt was a golden lion crowned in red enamel. It was exquisitely wrought, but Sansa couldn’t help recoiling at the reminder that this sword came from the hand of the Kingslayer. Jon’s face showed a similar bitterness.

“I don’t want it,” he said harshly.

“The Kingslayer gave it to me when I left to find your sisters,” Brienne continued as if she hadn’t heard him - and for all Sansa knew, she hadn’t. Brienne’s pigheadedness when doing what was right blinded and deafened her to all else, in Sansa’s limited experience. “Tywin had it made from the remains of your father’s claymore.”

“Ice…” Sansa breathed. “Brienne, you never told me that!”

“Keep it. It’s fitting you protect my sister with my father’s sword.” Brienne pinched her lips together and stared at Jon. He sighed. “When Winterfell is ours again, we’ll talk about swords. For now, keep it.” For all her stubbornness, Brienne was just a knight, and knights obeyed lords, so she picked up Oathkeeper and slid it into the sheath at her waist with one smooth gesture.

Tormund coughed, as he twirled a knife in one hand over and under his fingers, and stared into the space over the mantel. “What’s to stop this man who has your brother from killing him outright when word reaches him about our assault? It’s what I would do.”

Sansa shook her head. “He might but I don’t think so. You heard his letter. He wants to take his time. The Bolton men might follow him because Roose legitimized Ramsay - more the fool, him - but they won’t stand by and wait for Ramsay to flay Rickon. And Ramsay won’t let Rickon pass through his fingers without at least a little sport.” She crouched by Ghost, and buried her fingers in his thick, coarse ruff for comfort. The direwolf arched his neck to let her rub behind his jaw as she spoke into the fire. “That’s just what I think. I might be wrong. And Rickon is a Stark. He knows we’ll come for him just as well as he knows he could very well die if we do. But he will certainly die if we don’t.” She stood, and faced Jon. She owed it to look him in the eye. “We can’t let Rickon’s life keep us from our course of action.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged, as if all the threads holding him together since his death had been cut at once. “You’re right.”  
“Ho, it’s not a lost cause yet!” Tormund said. “I have an idea.”

“Well, there’s a novelty,” said Edd.

Tormund shook a chicken bone at him. “Just because I’m not a Stenn doesn’t mean I couldn’t learn to like the taste of crow.” To Podrick, he said: “Fetch the fingerless man and his red witch.”


	2. A Star on the Dark Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund gathers intel, while Sansa and Jon discuss honour and duty, befitting two Stark children.

Jon watched his sister swing herself off her horse, and begin removing the tack with practiced fingers. His spoiled little sister would have never been caught dead doing much more than gently currying her pony, or feeding it snacks, but the Sansa that rode with him now had fingers cracked and red from the cold, roughened with field work. He made the mistake of marveling out loud at the change in the presence of Sansa’s formidable sword shield, and Brienne wasted no time in chastising Jon for thoughtlessness.

“Did you know she can weave a lean-to in full darkness?” Brienne said. “Or accurately calculate how many days we could travel on the rations we carried? Or stitch a wound?” Tormund, riding ahead of his wildlings, listened to Brienne’s diatribe, eyes bright with shrewd interest.

Jon was stung, and more than a little ashamed. “How could I have? The last time I saw Sansa, she was a girl of fourteen, riding off to become a princess. ‘Twas Arya who was the wild one.”

Brienne _harumphed_ , a wry twist to her mouth. “Aye. Well, she still is, if my encounter with her was any indication. I don’t need to tell you that Lady Sansa has been through hell and back, but she’s lost none of her kindness or courage. It’s no spring lark to ride to Castle Black facing the teeth of winter, and she did it without complaint. Catelyn would be very proud.” She spurred her horse forward to rejoin Sansa’s side. Tormund sidled up next to Jon’s horse and pulled down his scarf to reveal a grin cracking the tangle of his beard. Jon looked down on him from his horse.

“Don’t be getting ideas about my sister,” he warned.

“Aye, she’d make a fine spearwife for any man,” Tormund agreed. “But that hair!” Bundled for the cold, as they all were, Sansa’s bright Tully hair was covered with a heavy wool cloak borrowed from Castle Black’s stores. “Kissed by fire, we say.”

“I know,” Jon said, remembering the wiry feel of Ygritte’s hair in his hands. “I don’t think much of the luck it’s brought her.”

“Har! You’re still a southerner, crow, for all your time spent beyond the wall. I couldn’t tumble a lass with fire-kissed hair anymore than I could my own mother. You can’t cross fire with fire, or you burn, the both of you, and all your loved ones with you. Everyone knows that.”

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

“I already have one pretty crow,” Tormund added. “What use do I have for a songbird?”

Jon drew the hood of his cloak forward to better hide his burning ears. “Tormund, get your scouts.”

 

****

 

Sansa sat back on her heels, and squinted at the sky. The land was more open here, with none of the thick, ancient trees of the woods west of Winterfell, nor the mountains that edged the sea like stony jaws. The sky had a lemony haze she associated with the great, crashing thunderstorms that occasionally rocked King’s Landing, but out here, Sansa could not tell if it meant snow coming, or was merely the result of the setting sun. The nearby lake breathed damp into the air and ground, and chill bled through her thick boots and fur-wrapped legs.

“Nightfall soon,” Brienne said. The woman moved remarkably quiet for someone as tall and ungainly as she, though she had forgone wearing the armour on the hard ride south, to save the horses. Instead she had wrapped the armour in kidskin and packed it away with gentleness. The armour had been a gift from Renly Baratheon, Sansa understood, when he had elevated Brienne to his Kingsguard. Sansa did not begrudge Renly her knight’s devotion; indeed, she could see that the honour Brienne gave each of her oaths did not diminish the one she had made Sansa, but burnished it to a fine thing, and precious.

The fire remained pitifully small, and worse, was beginning to smoke in the damp air. “Leave it to Pod,” Brienne said. “We’ve been summoned to the Lord Commander’s tent for strategy.” Sansa made a disgusted noise. “And hot wine.”

“Oh? Suddenly, I feel very strategic.” Nodding at Pod, who was frowning at the fire with a fistful of kindling, Sansa let Brienne take her hand and raise her to her feet. Arm in arm, they walked towards the centre of camp, where the black wool tent had been raised, and covered over with grey goat’s fur. It was impossible to hide a war band of two thousand some odd wildlings, but that didn’t mean they meant to make it obvious they were here, either.

The commander’s tent was wonderfully warm, lit with braziers at all four corners. Sansa sighed, and threw back the hood of her cloak, and unwound the scarf from her face to better feel the heat. Aside from a broad, low camp table and chairs, and the heaters, the tent was sparsely furnished, befitting a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Jon was there with a small crowd of wildlings, dressed head to toe in poorly cured leather, bits of hair and fur still clinging to the skin, and rank with animal musk. Seeing her nose wrinkle, Tormund waved her over.

“Har! The Boltons are known for their scenthounds, Brother Crow tells me, so my scouts will be harmless elk and bison in the fields. The better to live, eh?”

“It’s true,” Sansa admitted, shivering at the memory of howling on the wind. “Though I cannot say that the hounds aren’t all with Ramsay at Winterfell. He could scarce be parted from them.” Some nights, she suspected her husband had slept in the kennels with the hounds, a tiny respite she always thanked the Mother for. Only whenever Ramsay went, so did Theon, and in some ways, the loneliness in the dark was harder than anything else - nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. Sansa pushed them away, and attended to the discussion at hand.

“Only six men?” she asked. “Surely, that’s too few.”

Tormund shrugged. “If they’re caught, they die. A few more fighters won’t change that.”

“If you’re caught, you’ll be tortured,” Jon warned. One wildling, a knife of a man with short choppy hair and a gap in his front teeth, laughed, saying “First, the kneelers have to find us.” In short order, Jon and Tormund had assigned each scout their duties, and rendezvous points, some weeks hence. Sansa thought of camping on the shores of Long Lake for weeks, just out of range of the Dreadfort, and ground her teeth, and said nothing. Thus dismissed, the scouts shouldered their packs and walked out of the tent. After a look from Jon, Tormund ambled after them, leaving Jon, Brienne and Sansa alone with the maps and the hiss of coals.

Sansa seated herself on one of the camp chairs; it was worn and slung low, but comfortable after days a-horse. Jon unearthed a wineskin and some horn mugs from the clutter of equipment in the corner. “I used to do this for Lord Commander Mormont before- before. He was always very particular about how he liked his mulled wine,” he said. “Then, Sam did it for me when I was Lord Commander. It was the least he could do after getting me elected.” He drew a poker from the nearest brazier and submersed it into each cup of wine, causing a short, sharp _sss_ and a curl of smoke. “Sam left for the Citadel before you arrived. He would’ve liked you. You’d have terrified him, but he would’ve liked you anyway.” He handed Sansa a mug of wine, and offered the second to Brienne, who took it but remained standing at Sansa’s left shoulder.

After a few moments breathing in the steam, and a few more holding the warm wine in her mouth before letting it trickle into her belly, Sansa smiled. “It’s good. Why would I have terrified him?”

Jon sat across from her. “Oh, girls frightened Sam badly. _Everything_ frightened Sam, but he never let it stop him from doing his duty… except when it came to women. The red priestess, the one we sent to Winterfell with Ser Davos, scared him worse than any wight ever could. The more strong-willed and beautiful, the worse it was. You’d have given him fits, I’m sure.” He smiled, with that inward look of pain and joy commingled.

“You miss him.”

“Aye, I do. But he was meant for the Citadel, and he’ll be happier there, surrounded by books. Not too happy, I hope - the Wall will need him back someday.” He looked into his mug, as if reading a fortune, and laughed. “Besides, I sent him south with a wildling girl he was sweet on. As pretty and headstrong as they come. The indomitable will came from Craster, no doubt but the looks-” He shrugged. _Who knows?_

“Maybe he’ll forget his vows and marry her,” Sansa teased him. That fast, Jon’s face shuttered, like a window slamming shut in a cold wind.

“ _Never_.”

Silence filled the tent, punctuated only by the creaking of Brienne’s gear and the wind snapping the tent cloth. Sansa toyed with her drink, and contemplated apologizing, but in truth, she didn’t know what for, only that she’d insulted Jon somehow. It didn’t feel right apologizing without understanding, but she’d made up her mind to do it, just to clear the air and make things right, when Brienne startled them all by sitting down. She told them about Renly’s death, and how she came to serve Lady Catelyn, even when it meant helping the Kingslayer escape.

“Sometimes, your honour dictates you do something that seems hateful, purposeless. Sometimes serving means more than belonging to this king, or that queen,” Brienne finished up. “You yourself broke your vows to the Night’s Watch, Lord Commander-”

“-aye, I did. To serve the Night’s Watch, at Qhorin Halfhands’ orders!” When Jon was angry, his Northern burr came out in full force.

“Of course. It served a greater purpose - that is all I meant. If Sam is as loyal as you say, even were he to break his vows, it would be to serve the realm and the threat the Others present to us all.”

“Or for love,” Sansa said, softly. Jon and Brienne both looked at her as if she was holding a great hairy insect like a pet; with horror and disgust and not a little awe. “Isn’t love the greatest purpose of all to serve?”

“You don’t still believe that - in fairy tales, and gallant knights! Begging your pardon, my Lady Brienne…”

“I do,” Sansa said. “I have to. I’m not an idiot. Love isn’t flower crowns, and wearing a lady’s favour at joust. It’s…it’s ninety percent mess, and ten percent something magical. And the ten percent must make it all worthwhile, else we’d all just give up and lie down in the snow to die.” With a jolt, she realized those were Cersei Lannister’s words to her when she found out how awful menstruating really was. Even a court fool has it’s stock of wisdom. “Lady Brienne, you joined Renly’s Kingsguard for love of Renly Baratheon. And later, you did my mother’s bidding, even though it went against everything you held dear, for love of her. And-” Sansa’s ears burned, but continued on, for it was just a matter of speech. “-though you swore to serve me in memory of her, you follow me for my own sake now, at least a little.”

Brienne stared, silent, until Sansa thought she couldn’t bear it, and would run from the tent. But the knight nodded, saying in a soft voice quite unlike her usual imperious tone, “I do, Lady Sansa.” She stood up, and excused herself, saying she wanted to be sure Pod had finished setting up camp and begun dinner. Jon spoke before the tent flap finished falling back into place, so that Sansa didn’t quite hear him.

“Pardon?”

“Why didn’t you break?” Jon asked. “Why couldn’t Ramsay break you?”

“He needed me,” Sansa said. “He needed my Stark claim to keep Winterfell.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jon said. He stood, and began to pace the dirt floor of the tent. “I’m sorry, what an awful thing to ask.”

“It’s quite all right. I understand, I think.”

“Theon was an arrogant little shit of a boy, and from your story, he was barely more than a worm with hair when you arrived at Winterfell.”

“Theon…” Sansa searched for words, trying to do justice to the man who had helped her, despite everything, but settled for the truth. “Theon was weak. He wanted things too much. By the time I arrived, I’d been tempered in the forge of the Red Keep - used by the Queen to betray my own father, brutalized by Joffrey’s guard-” she turned, and spat on the ground. “Married off to the Imp, nearly thrown out the Eyrie door, and married off again. I had nothing left to break. Ramsey could do what he liked to the body but he couldn’t touch me here-” she tapped her heart, “-or here.” Her mind. “I realized during those months that I wasn’t stupid, or soft, or silly at all.”

“Sansa-”

She laughed. “Funny, how two awful men - Littlefinger, and the Hound - were the ones to treat me like a person with a brain, like I could do for myself in the world. They were right, even if it came to shit. But I know now, and they can’t change that, or take it from me. No one can.” Her fingers traced the embroidery on her dress, stitches that echoed the dimples below in her flesh, where she’d stitched herself back together after some night or another. Jon strode over to her and clasped her hands, stilling them.

“Sansa, I’m sorry.”

She leaned her head on his, bright copper hair mingling with raven dark curls. “So am I.” They stayed like that for a few moments, and Sansa was glad, once more, to be with family again. “Best I get on, then, before Pod scolds me for keeping him from dinner. Will you sleep here?” Aside from the armour spread out to dry, Sansa didn’t see a bedroll or cot.

“I’ll bed down with the wildlings, most like,” Jon said. “Doesn’t feel right, putting myself up like a lord when I’ve resigned the Night’s Watch command.”

“You’ll have to tell me, in more detail, how you and Tormund ended up together.”

A pained groan. “Sansa…”

“As _allies_.”

“Ah. Right.”

She paused at the entrance, darker shadow on shadow, and said over her shoulder. “Love’s a mess, but it’s true, you know. The ten percent magic makes it worth it.” Then Sansa was gone, and Jon was alone.


End file.
